


Champagne

by Gwyllt



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Out of Character, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26790976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyllt/pseuds/Gwyllt
Summary: Oswald has won the election, but something is bothering him, and Ed comes to help him understand what is it.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	Champagne

**Author's Note:**

> My first English fic written actually in English from the start. Challenging! Like this.
> 
> Many many many thanks to FalleNess, who proofread it.  
> \----  
> Timeline: approximately after 3x04, plot with the election.

The election is won. Oswald doesn’t believe in such a fortunate turn of events, but he’s done it.  
Despite gossiping, hate, and disgust, despite his reputation, despite everything.

 _He won_.

There has been a lot of speeches, big talks, congratulations—and a lot of people wanting to show their respect to the new mayor. And, along with all of this, a lot of champagne. And maybe, just maybe, Oswald has had a little too much. He’s never been a big drinker, after all.

Now, a wonderful view of Gotham, with its lights and buildings, opens up before him as he is standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows. The music is wailing in the distance—the party has moved somewhere nearby. No one has invited him—no regrets here. Let them have their fun— they have done their job well.

Oswald sees the frame of Wayne's Tower and Gotham Bridge; a long chain of taillights spread all over the city. His breathing ragged, the waves of feelings submerge him.

_His city._

He presses his palm against the icy window glass, sprinkled with rain droplets on the outside. Pleasant coolness runs through his fingertips, calming his blood.

“Mine,” he whispers. “It’s all mine.”

Champagne boils in his blood, smoothing his thoughts and movements, and Oswald feels happy; and, at the same time, empty—he feels the void filling him from inside. He wishes—Oswald freezes, breathless—he wishes his mother could be with him now. She would be so happy, so proud… She always, always has wanted him to become someone great. Someone special.

“Oswald?”

A nasal voice breaks his train of thoughts—Oswald flinches and turns around. Ed smiles at him, handing him a glass—he holds another one in his hand.

“I’ve said it before, but I–I am so happy for you. Cheers!”

He raises his glass, and Oswald does the same.

“Cheers,” he takes a sip of the golden liquid, and it runs down his throat, coating him with warmth. “I hope you’re enjoying the celebration.”

“Of course. It’s wonderful. But, may I ask you…” Ed seems to hesitate, but after a short pause, he continues: “Why are you standing here, alone? Everyone is down there, and you… Don’t you want to join them?”

A smile on his lips, Oswald lowers his eyes. The bubbles in his glass are sparkling, just like Gotham’s lights.

“I am a little drained. This hysterical fuss was, actually, great, but also extremely exhausting. I–I am not complaining, you know, I realize, it’s the price every mayor has to pay. But I—”

“I understand,” Ed’s hand drops to his shoulder, and he squeezes it. “You did well. I am so proud of you, Oswald.”

Soft music is still playing in the distance—something slow-paced and soothing. People laugh, glasses clink.

_Why are you standing here, alone?_

“I feel so lonely,” the words flee his mouth before Oswald stops himself. He raises his eyes, catching Edward’s gaze, and suddenly it comes to him: there’s no harm in telling. “You know, they hate me.”

“They love you, Oswald. Or else, why—”

“No,” Oswald shakes his head. “No, you don’t _understand_. They love me as a mayor, but they… they don’t need me. Real me. I am just a wizard, fairy godfather, who makes their wishes come true and answers prayers. And what I am, what I feel, what I want—they don’t care. They despise me. Who am I for them, an umbrella boy!”

The glass trembles in his fingers and Oswald turns his face to the window, shifting his gaze at the city.

“You are not an umbrella boy, Oswald. That was the point where you began. But you’ve come a long way now.”

“I know,” Oswald mutters, his voice barely audible. His eyes slowly glide over the lights—from one to the other—but his thoughts drift away. Ed, as always, is right, but why his words don’t give him comfort? Maybe, just maybe, it’s because Oswald isn’t blind and he can see things—he sees how people look at him, what they say about him… “But they don’t respect me.”

It doesn’t matter what he does or will do. The “Umbrella boy” will stick to him forever.

“They will,” Ed’s voice is assuring, but Oswald winces—what can he even know?

“Oswald.”

“Yes,” Oswald opens his eyes, wondering—when has he closed them?

“What can I do for you?”

“What?” Oswald looks back. “What do you—”

“It’s your day,” Nygma stares at him with his black, deep-set eyes. “I won’t let you be left off all alone with your misery, even if you want to.”

“I don’t w—” Oswald frowns. “I’m not following you, Ed.”

Nygma is beaming at him—almost like another brilliant idea has flashed through his mind—and Oswald doesn’t like the look on his face.

“Quickly, answer the question: what do you want right now?”

“Er, I…”

“I said: quickly. It means, at once. The first thing that comes to your mind, say it.”

“Yeah, I know,”—sometimes Ed winds him up—“but...”

“Come on,” Ed’s lips turn up in a tempting smile. “What do you want, Oswald? Name it. Anything. You deserve it.”

Ed’s gracious confidence is like a red rag to a bull. Ed is always so sure he is capable of anything, always on top of the world, so proud of his brilliance and smartness—at times, it’s unbearable.

“ _I want my mother_!” The words burst out from Oswald’s mouth. His glass slips through his fingers and shatters: million glistening shards spread all over the floor. “I want her standing next to me to see my success! But she’s dead, and you can do nothing about it, Ed!”

An andante tune keeps flowing downstairs; glasses clink again, someone breaks into a laugh, and Oswald can’t deal with it anymore.

“I’m going home,” he spits, limping around Nygma. Oswald realizes the champagne has taken its toll on him, particularly—his balance and coordination. He does his best to keep himself upright and walk straight—but Nygma reaches out and stops him.

“She would be proud of you, Oswald. I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Never mind,” Oswald’s voice quivers, and he hides his face from Nygma. “Let me go.”

“I insist, Oswald. Here, now—what can I do?”

Nygma’s voice, soft and even, as always, breaks something inside his chest, and he bursts into tears—they crash down his cheeks like a waterfall.

Oswald does the only thing he can—hugs Nygma, burying his face in Ed’s chest.

“I miss her,”—he sobs, his fingers squeezing at Ed’s arms—“Oh God, I miss her so much...”

“It’s all right,” Edward spreads his arms and holds him, gently stroking his back. “All right, all right, let it be. I am here.”

Oswald doesn’t make a single noise, just clutching at Ed’s jacket as if his life depends on it. He feels dizzy,—like his head is on a giant spinner—and the groove gives way to a nagging pain thumping in Oswald’s temples.

“Oh, God,” Oswald mutters and retreating from Ed. “I am so sorry, Ed. I had no intent to—”

“Nonsense. I am glad to help you,” Ed smiles at him. “Better?”

“A little bit, yes.” He _is_ feeling better. A little bit, as he said, but better. “Too much champagne.”

Oswald doesn’t want to step back. Doesn’t want to let Ed go. If only he could stand here till dawn, with Ed, and…

“Dance with me,” the words escape his mouth again—too much champagne, indeed.

“Sorry?” That look on Ed’s face; Oswald has seen it a couple of times. Confusion. Uncertainty. Trying to figure out what’s going on. “I’m not—”

“Dance with me. Please.” The music still plays somewhere downstairs, slow and gentle, and Oswald can hear every note. “Just one dance, and I… And you’ll never…”

Oswald barely realizes he compromises himself—he just wants it, wants so badly so he would’ve sold the world if needed. He wants to dance; he wants—

_he wants Ed._

“Oh, sure,” Ed’s hands wrap around his waist, gently holding him in his arms. Oswald closes his eyes and lets himself free—

Ed’s warmth is flowing through Oswald’s fingertips, calming the new mayor of Gotham like nothing else did since… Since his mom died. Oswald shakes his head, throwing sorrowful thoughts away. She is dead and, as he said, no one could have done anything.

Oswald can smell the cologne—a faint scent of sandal, so fitting for Ed. Usually, he avoids people who use any kind of perfumes, but Ed is an exception. Oswald breathes in, but not too much—he is not a dog, after all.

Ed is leading him—it isn’t a proper dance anyway, but they are swinging to the left and right, and Ed is holding him gently, but tight. And Oswald is melting like an ice cube in the sunlight—he wants this moment to last forever.

But then the music ends, and applause collapse at him like an avalanche, sweeping him away—

and if Ed hadn’t held him, Oswald would’ve gone.

 _Forever_.

“I am… thankful,” Oswald takes a step back, not looking at Ed. “It was very nice of you.”

“Oswald.”

Oswald doesn’t want to meet Edward’s eyes, but he also can’t resist the temptation to do so—and raises his own. Ed stares at him, the shadows dissolving his features, so Oswald can’t discern him. Just shadows. His fingers preserve the warmth and softness of Ed’s body, and Oswald would give anything to make this feeling linger.

And he does nothing.

“What?” Oswald asks, stretching his lips.

Ed opens his mouth as if trying to pick a proper word—and then he smiles too, his arms behind his back.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

“Just… tell me, Ed.” Oswald is sick of games.  
Ed bites his lower lip and shrugs.

“I wonder if you let me do quite a ridiculous thing… Which I personally find a bit excessive, but…”

“What thing?” Oswald bears with these weird social dances because he knows Ed. Sometimes he needs to take his time to cut to the chase.

Ed takes a step forward, looking at Oswald with his dark, unreadable eyes—and leans to Oswald, planting a kiss in the cheek, and then straightens his back up.

But he doesn’t look away.

The silence falls, crashing everything down in its way. Oswald raises his hand, touching his face—his skin is burning, the heat slowly spreading across his face.

Shock.  
Frustration.  
Disarray.

“Wh… What?..” Oswald blinks, his mouth falling open. Ed is standing in front of him, his face impenetrable, and Oswald has no clue what he is thinking. So simple, so easy—and what is he expecting?

“It was unacceptable. I apologize for my impetuous impulse, I have overstepped the boundaries. I am leaving. Immediately,” Ed takes a step back.

“No! Don’t leave,” Oswald grabs Ed’s arm, his fingers clutching at his jacket. “It was… It’s just champagne. That’s all. Nothing to apologize for.”

The words crowd, the sounds cluster in his mouth, messing with him. He stares at Ed’s—dark, almost black eyes, like space, with stars of Gotham’s lights flickering in them. Oswald freezes, transfixed, and strokes Ed’s shoulder up and down. He can feel his arm under the fabric, slim and sinewy, and desperately wants to touch the warm skin and...

“It was perfect… I–I mean, perfectly fine for me,” he stammers, realizing that Ed is still looking at him, confused. “Nothing to worry about.”

Just champagne,” Ed repeats, a tentative smile stretching his lips. Even if he was surprised by Oswald’s behavior, he doesn’t show it. “Yes. Of course. Alcohol intoxication often leads to some… Strange behavior.”

“Yes. Yes, it does,” Oswald smiles back, nervously, clenching his fingers tighter. He should say something, should tell him about… “Listen, Ed…”

“Yes?” Ed looks at him with genuine attention.

But Oswald forces himself to stop. Ed doesn’t need his confession—he has Isabella, and their relationship seems disgustingly fine. And the kiss was just… Emotional impulse. And champagne.

Nothing else.

Deep down in Oswald’s ribcage the volcano of pain starts erupting, flooding his soul with darkness and despair, and he lets go of Ed’s shoulder. His hand lifelessly dangles along his body.

“No. Nothing,” Oswald’s lips refuse to move, froze in a crooked grin. “I’d better go home. It’s late.”

“Of course,” Ed reaches out, shaking Oswald’s palm a little. “Have a rest, Oswald. You deserve it.”

Oswald watches Ed leaving. The distance between them decreases with every step, and every step follows with a little more pain—and a little more anger in Oswald’s mind.

He should do something about Isabella. It couldn’t be _just_ champagne.


End file.
